


i know that i try (fever in the eyes)

by twosetmeridian



Series: counterpoint [twosetviolin oneshots] [17]
Category: Twosetviolin
Genre: (not between brett and eddy), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst, F/F, Infidelity, London, Mutual Pining, Not Getting Together, One Night Stands, PLEASE HEED THE TAGS!, Romance, fem!Brett Yang, fem!Eddy Chen, idk how this happened but y'know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28111845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twosetmeridian/pseuds/twosetmeridian
Summary: The other woman smiles, all bright lipstick and blonde hair: untouchable. She’ll be chasing that gold forever, she knows.Or: Brettany and Edwina, one night in London.
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Series: counterpoint [twosetviolin oneshots] [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560592
Comments: 14
Kudos: 69





	i know that i try (fever in the eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> A confession: I personally prefer the name _Brettina_ instead of _Brettany_ for fem!Brett, but the fandom consensus points to the latter, so, y’know. Still calling her _Brettina_ in my heart of hearts, though. <3
> 
> Unashamedly inspired by the music video of _Fever_ by Dua Lipa & Angèle. Title from the same song.

(9:41 PM.)

London, she thinks, is a wild, untamable beast of neon and concrete. It's nothing quite like the suburbs of Brisbane that she frequents, or even the busy streets of Taipei as she remembers it from her youth. No: out here, it's a whole different story, and try as she might to endear herself to her surroundings, she feels out of place.

(It's not the city's fault, not really; it's the people. _Person_ , to be specific.)

Brettany near-stumbles out the door of the club, slightly tipsy on alcohol and the frenzied buzz of atmospheric nightlife. The world's fuzzy around the edges, but she's not so drunk that she can't figure out how to get home. "Taxi!" Shiny black chrome slows to a stop at the curb, the driver carefully instructed to take her to Camden.

She's halfway into the car when a familiar lilting voice reaches her ears, and god help her, but her gut clenches with anticipation. Excitement. _Fuck_.

"Are you going home now?" The question stops her short, and Brettany turns towards the voice, her spine straightening: parade rest.

Every time she looks at Edwina Chen, she has to absorb her in fragments. The cold mystique of a gaze; the elegant, Grecian arch of a neck. The waterfall shock of golden hair; the curve of a red-tinted, kissable lip. The entirety of her is too much for Brettany to take in, and so she has to dissect the woman into pieces. All the better to swallow down, all the better to stomach them all.

( _You'd_ feel out of place if you were standing next to an enigma.)

Edwina's talking, paying no heed to the dark glare the cab driver sends her way. "Let's walk a bit, c'mon. If you'd like," she adds at the end, tilting her head. It sounds like a request. It sounds like _please._

She should say no. A stronger soul would say no to a walking temptation, but here she is, giving in to the dangerous act of considering the blonde's words.

On one hand: Brettany should head to her hotel. Her flight back home's early the next morning, and with the threat of a rough hangover hovering over her head, she knows it's going to be hell if she stays up late tonight. It's the responsible thing to do. Her agent would approve.

On the other hand: Edwina is a vision. Edwina dances to almost any kind of music under the sun but cringes every time the DJ puts on one of her own songs. Edwina sways her hips like a succubus, raises her hands in the air like a child. Edwina remembers every name introduced to her, smiles at every face she sees.

Edwina calls her Brett.

"Okay," she says, and the way Edwina's eyes sparkle at her concession makes the hesitant note in her voice disappear when she continues. "Okay. Let's take a walk."

*

(10:12 PM.)

Maybe she has to revise her earlier statement—London is a wild, untamable beast. Edwina Chen, in all her glory, is a step above that.

There's something about her that's electrifying. She's a singer, of course; performers are meant to be enthralling, whether they're on stage at the Roundhouse or dancing on the street at Peckham. Still, there's something about Edwina that sets her apart from all the others, Polaris against the glittering night sky. She doesn't know what _it_ is, exactly, and she doesn't know if she's keen enough to find out.

(That she sees Edwina this way: is it a fact or a weapon?)

Laughter echoes across the empty block, bouncing off the rain puddles and streetlamps. Lights flicker in blue and red hues over Edwina's skin; they render her otherworldly this way, a metropolitan nymph prancing through the urban jungle. She's jumping and twirling to a tune only she can hear, and for all that she's supposed to be getting home right now, Brettany halts her footsteps and watches.

She's front row to a private performance, after all. This is worth a dozen, ten dozen taxi rides home.

As if noticing the turn of her thoughts, Edwina turns and grins at her, all bright lipstick and blonde hair: untouchable. Brettany blinks once, twice, trying to shake the shine from her vision. It's a useless exercise; she'll be chasing that gold forever, she knows.

"You ever been to Tübingen?"

"No, I haven't." She's never been to many places at all, so far. Brettany crosses her arms and leans against a dusty shutter door, watching the blonde saunter up to a streetlight. "Why? Where's that?"

"Germany. It's where I learned how to pole dance."

The revelation startles a laugh out of her throat. The other woman's look of delight is worth the outburst. "Oh my god."

"Maybe you can join me there someday," Edwina tells her, her leg wrapped around the pole as she makes an experimental spin around it. Immersed in the study of the fluid motion, it takes a while for Brettany to respond.

"No thanks."

"Shame." She hums, twirling around the pole again, arching her back and baring her throat out, eyes closed. Brettany has to stomp down the sudden urge to bite that patch of exposed skin. "I feel like my instructor would've liked you, you know."

It's not quite shocking anymore, hearing new puzzle pieces that make up the whole of Edwina. She files this piece of information away— _Edwina can pole dance_ —in her brain alongside the other thoughts she has of the blonde, such as _Edwina is a good singer_ and _Edwina can dance very well_. The other, more unbecoming thoughts are shoved further back against the walls of her skull, such as _Edwina is so beautiful, it's obscene_ and _I want to know what Edwina's lips taste like_.

God-fucking-damnit. She's forgetting herself, in the jumble of her thoughts. She has to get back to the hotel.

"Edwina," she calls out, smiling as she beckons the other woman towards her with a _come hither_ motion, "come here."

" _Oui_ , Brett."

Edwina takes her hand, doesn't let go until they've walked past two blocks. It is then that Brettany remembers how to breathe.

*

(11:33 PM.)

Of all the places they could've made a quick stopover, a 24 hour diner hadn't been at the top of Brettany's list. But then Edwina had complained of hunger, so. It had been embarrassing, how quickly she had aimed to please.

They're seated at a table so small, their knees are knocking together. The stench of fried, oily food permeates the air, clinging to their clothes. Their shared plate of greasy fries and can of Coke aren't exactly decent standard fare, but somehow, it's the tastiest meal Brettany's had in the United Kingdom by a mile.

(It has nothing to do with the identity of her companion or the way their fingers brush every so often when they pick up the food to shove into their mouths. Of course not.)

Under the stale glow of the overhead lights, Edwina looks almost human. Almost mortal. The warmth of her skin from the points of contact connecting them is enough to send Brettany's nerves aflutter, which is quite frankly a ridiculous reaction to something so—so _innocent_.

"You're staring," Edwina says, squeezing the bottle of ketchup tight over their meagre bounty. She forces her gaze away, grabs the Coke and chugs down a mouthful as if it were a shot of liquor. When she puts the can down, she can feel the weight of the blonde's amusement like a tangible thing.

"Sorry. I was thinking of my warm bed just now, waiting for me to get there."

"Oh?" Edwina smirks, the glint of her thumb ring in the lowlight as she plucks another piece of fried potato from the pile. "Am I keeping you from your bed?"

Brettany shrugs, noncommittal to a proper response. She doesn't know what to say to that—at least, something that isn't wholly inappropriate to say to a friend.

"Indulge me, yeah? It's your last night here. I want to make it as unforgettable as possible."

 _Unforgettable_ , she says.

"It's not that I don't want that," Brettany tells the other woman, her eyes still glued to the table, "but I think I should—"

"Trust me, darling," Edwina says, batting her eyelashes in a way no one should be legally allowed to do. "I'll take care of you."

(It's dangerous that Brettany believes that declaration so fully.)

*

(12:04 AM.)

She discovers Edwina has a boyfriend at around midnight, which is an apt time to have these sorts of world-wrenching concepts revealed to her.

"We're supposed to be hanging off each other's arm all the time during events, can you believe?" The blonde shakes her head, glaring into the darkness beyond the empty train station and the bench they're occupying. "My label wanted me to have him, and who am I to refuse _Le Patron_?" She grimaces. "Anyway. We're fucking, but I don't love him."

It takes all of her willpower not to flinch at that last statement, the callousness of it. Brettany coughs into her fist, tries not to react outwardly when the other absentmindedly takes her other hand, warming it between her palms. When the words come, they are soft, wary. "And you—you're alright with that?"

Edwina sighs. "There's very little in this world that I can be _alright_ with without getting kicked out the back door." Her gaze hardens, her resolve crystalline. "I'll _have_ to be."

Here is the first crack in the veneer, the first chink in the armor. Here is why they cannot stand together, in the end. They are both unflinching, uncompromising in the futures they have laid out before themselves. (It's a foregone conclusion.)

They stand to their feet and begin walking again. This time, when Edwina entwines her fingers around Brettany's, she doesn't let go.

*

(1:25 AM.)

The next hour is an unexpected whirlwind of activity. A fan of Edwina notices them passing along Old Street and hails them down to chat with the singer; at the end of their brief discussion, Brettany somehow finds herself tagging along to a house party that's out of the way of her route to the hotel.

There's drinking and smoking and all sorts of things she isn't prepared to deal with again this late at night, but thankfully, there is a distraction, potent and all-encompassing.

Edwina's dancing again, but with music this time: low drawls of guitar strings, the deep thumping bass that hypnotizes. She gyrates her hips like the Serpent of Eden must've done to tempt Eve. Here is the rosy apple of good and evil on her lips; here is the temptation made flesh in a flat in London.

The blonde slides her way into Brettany's personal space, runs her fingers through the rust-colored strands of the shorter woman's hair. "Dance with me, Brett."

"I'm no good." She doesn't know whether she still has the strength in her to keep her hands from wandering where they shouldn't.

"Don't worry." Edwina smiles, hauls her up to her feet and latches on to her waist with cool fingers. "I'll dance good enough for the both of us. You just follow my lead."

And so Brettany does, as Adam had done for Eve: following her companion into the unknown, into the knowing.

*

(2:26 AM.)

There's both bodies and bottles littered all over the wooden floors of the flat, and they're kissing.

Brettany's never been kissed the way Edwina kisses her: like she's starving, like she's half-mad, like she wants to crawl under Brettany's skin and stay there for as long as she is able.

Here under the weight of the force of nature that Edwina is, she _wants_ with a hunger she can't explain. She _needs_ with an ache that's nestled itself deep within her ribs, inextricable.

In her shock, she hasn't really moved to reciprocate much, and so Edwina moves away. The whimper at the back of Brettany's throat should be embarrassing, but it isn't, not when the blonde's gaze softens at the hearing of it. "You don't want this?"

"I didn't say that." It takes a moment for her to catch her breath. "No, I was just surprised."

"Oh." Edwina continues to stare at her in silence, long enough that by the next time she opens her mouth to speak again, Brettany's realized that she's been waiting for a sign of confirmation. "So. Okay?"

There is no question, here. No hesitation. "Okay."

"Come here then, _chérie_ ," Edwina murmurs against her jawline, and Brettany comes close, closer, until there is no space left between them at all.

*

(3:17 AM.)

These are things she will never forget, for as long as she shall live.

The rose-battered lips, the trembling neck adorned with love bites, the sight of blonde hair between worshipful hands. The generous swell of her breasts, the darkened nipples Brettany has suckled into hardening. The wetness between her thighs, the way her toes curl with pleasure when fingers scissor in and out of her, the sweet taste of her release on Brettany's tongue. Edwina, Edwina, Edwina.

She will _never_ forget this.

"Brett," Edwina whispers into her ear, low and breathless and desperate: so unlike the untouchable creature that she had been a few hours ago. Here is an ethereal being brought low, and her heart pounds something fierce at the experience of it. "Brettany. _Brett_."

(In this way, she supposes, like in Casablanca with Paris, they will always have London.)

*

(4:38 AM.)

They're back outside on the streets again, the sky a darkened blue stretching out ad infinitum above. Already, life is stirring up to awaken all around them: cars are beginning to make more frequent appearances on the road; a flock of joggers breeze past them on the sidewalk.

She knows this is the last night—the _only_ night—they'll ever have together. Edwina has Paris, and Brettany can't bear to leave the only home she's ever known, no matter how glorious the way the stars glitter over Europe, no matter how much the golden luster of a particular blonde will blind her all her life. It's unthinkable to consider any other paths than the ones they're already set upon.

(And yet.)

They stand side by side together at an inconspicuous intersection, shoulder to shoulder and silent for a moment. It's unspoken, the importance of this place—this is the end of the line, the crossroads from which they will go their separate ways. And for once in her life, spurred on by the sinkhole digging itself deep into her chest, Brettany wants to be selfish.

"You'll come home with me?"

(She has to ask.)

Silence, except for the heartbeats loud in her ears. Edwina looks at her, the apology in her eyes making itself known for a brief moment before it's gone, a cool expression settling itself down in its place.

"No."

"Okay." The answer had been expected. It's not enough to stop her heart from imploding, quicksand at the bottom of her ribs. She nods firmly, fixing her gaze on the arches of the woman's eyebrows, the upturn of her delicate nose. Anywhere but her eyes, dark and knowing. "Good night, Edwina."

"No," Edwina says, shaking her head, "it's _good morning_ , now, Brett." She is silent for a moment, her face unreadable, before she reaches out, cradles Brettany's cheek in the warmth of her hand. " _Le soleil se lève dans tes yeux_."

Brettany's French is passable enough to make sense of those words, but with the way the syllables curl around her ribs and squeeze the air out of her lungs, she almost wishes she didn't understand them. " _Je te remercie_ ," she replies, because what else is there to say?

What else is there to salvage from this, the breaking of something that hadn't quite begun?

Edwina nods faintly, moving her fingers away. They both pointedly ignore the fact that the action is hesitant. " _Tout est bien qui finit bien_."

Ah, well. Brettany snorts, shaking her head at the irony of it all. It _hurts_. "As you say."

One last brush of soft lips against her cheek. When Edwina turns on her heel, she doesn't stay to watch her leave.

(There are small mercies she allows herself. This is one of them.)

*

(7:29 AM.)

She's tucked away in a lounge in Heathrow, nursing a warm Starbucks cup between her palms like a lifeline when it comes.

Brettany frowns, looks at her inbox. The contact name threatens to shake her to the core, but she musters enough courage to open the new message.

It's—it's a picture from last night. A selfie, slightly blurry, of Edwina and Brettany in the house party standing side by side, their faces smushed together, grinning from ear to ear.

It's the happiest she's looked in a long while.

She swallows down the lump in her throat, her eyes catching on the accompanying message, the words like meathooks for the fragile flesh of her heart.

_best night ever! love you xx_

In another life, she thinks, she would've thrown everything away for this chance at the love of a goddess. She would've shredded her plane ticket, caught the train or a dozen taxi rides, claimed what was rightfully hers in a woman with golden hair and a heart that can only be the match to her own.

But _this_ is the life she has, the path she has taken. The path they have _both_ taken. And in this life, Brettany Yang and Edwina Chen are nothing more than friends, now distant acquaintances from different sides of the planet. They are the two faces of a coin: turning outward from each other, never to touch.

And yet.

Here is a kernel of truth, yet one more piece of information willingly given, one more piece to be filed away in the recesses of Brettany's brain. A piece to be known, to be cherished, to become—as Edwina had said—unforgettable.

This knowledge, carved into a place of honor in her mind, her soul, her spirit—well. It'll have to be enough.

And so Brettany taps out a message, one she's sure will be the last one received from or sent to this particular contact. There's only three words to type, but she takes her time, her fingers tingling as she unravels a similar truth that she will never speak out loud.

_Love you too._

There's a ping that means her message has been sent; it feels like a kiss goodbye. She pockets her phone, takes a sip from her coffee, turns her head towards the high glass windows.

The night has passed. It's morning now, and a new day rises in London—and in her heart. Brettany breathes in deep, a faint smile curling at the edge of her mouth, and looks out towards the sunshine.

**Author's Note:**

> French translations below.  
>  _le patron_ — boss  
>  _chérie_ — sweetheart  
>  _Le soleil se lève dans tes yeux._ — The sun rises in your eyes.  
>  _Je te remercie._ — I thank you.  
>  _Tout est bien qui finit bien._ — All's well that ends well.


End file.
